


The Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse

by zimniy_soldat



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Ableist Language, Dehumanization, HYDRA Trash Party, Homophobic Language, Manipulation, Medical Torture, Physical Abuse, Psychological Torture, Violence, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-28 21:30:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6346087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zimniy_soldat/pseuds/zimniy_soldat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He’s dizzy with pain and a reckless need to fight back that would make even Steve-goddamn-Rogers envious.</i>
</p><p>[a darkfic exploring the methods of the KGB and HYDRA, the effects they had on Bucky Barnes, and the result of The Winter Soldier program]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1944

**Author's Note:**

> this will explore the different methods of dehumanization, brainwashing, and conditioning that the KGB/HYDRA would have used on bucky barnes. the rating will go up as more chapters are added; it will get much, much worse.
> 
> this first chapter contains depictions of medical violence, physical violence, and (for now, slight) psychological torture.
> 
> this is being categorised as HTP because of the subject matter. it might seem light or distant in the first chapter, but i can guarantee that it is going to become darker and more horrifying as the story progresses. please proceed with caution.

_Chapter 1: 1944_.

Bucky wakes up to unimaginable pain. Dim fluorescent lights greet his stinging eyes. The numbness of his left arm does nothing to stop the ache throughout his entire body. It feels like he had been hit by a train. _I fell from one, actually,_ he thinks derisively, _how the fuck am I still alive?_

He tries to sit up, but is immediately halted by thick straps holding him down. Bucky feels panic spike through his chest, cold as the ice he had landed on. Glimpses of red snow and black boots come to mind, but they’re blurry, vague, incomplete.

He lifts his head, winces, and looks around. Medical equipment surround the dented table he is strapped to, some of it coloured a rusty maroon from dry blood. Bucky’s throat burns with the effort to swallow. Everything hurts.

“Hey! Can anyone hear me?” Bucky yells hoarsely, hopes beyond hope that Steve or the Army had found him and have just momentarily stepped out of the bleak room.

After a few seconds, he prepares to try again when the door is pushed open and three men step in. They shout in Russian, and Bucky’s heart starts pounding. After getting no response, the KGB soldiers surround him. Bucky turns his head to look at his left arm and sees nothing.

_That can’t be right._

Bucky blinks in stunned confusion, staring at the vacant space where his arm should be. His shoulder is wrapped in thin gauze, blood seeping from reopened nicks and popped stitches. The stench of iron-heavy blood permeates from the wound. Bucky’s face blanches in shock. He screams, trying to kick his way out of the fastenings, right hand scrabbling uselessly beside his thigh. One of the Russian soldiers moves to the door to speak to a guard in hurried tones. Bucky doesn’t understand, can’t process it.

His screams are choked off as an officer grasps his throat tightly. Tears spring to Bucky’s eyes as he struggles to take a breath. The soldier’s eyes are gaze is unconcerned, bored almost, and Bucky can’t help but stare as his vision darkens around the edges.

Just as Bucky is about to pass out, on the verge of sweet nothingness, the soldier lets go. Bucky gasps, coughing as the oxygen rushes back into his sore lungs. His head throbs with the thrum of his pulse. He warily tracks the man’s movements with wide and terrified eyes as the soldier steps aside to allow another nondescript Russian to stand beside the American. The starch white of a lab coat peeks from under a heavy winter jacket. Under the man’s gaze, Bucky squirms. He feels deeply uncomfortable, wearing nothing but his pants. Defenseless in the presence of the enemy. A few steadying breaths are taken.

“Barnes,” Bucky stubbornly juts his chin out. “Sergeant. Three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight.”

The man puts his hands in the pockets of his coat with a sigh. His words are thick with both accent and annoyance, “no need for that, nobody’s coming to get you.”

A sharp nod to the soldiers, and they leave the room. The one that had choked Bucky remains beside the table. The doctor reaches over Bucky’s body to grab his wrist, checking his pulse. His body looms over Bucky’s with detached interest. His skin crawls.

_Don’t fall for this power play bullshit._

“Your arm could not be salvaged, too torn and shattered to be sewn back on,” the doctor pauses to straighten, then steps backwards. The soldier takes his place and brings his hand to Bucky’s shoulder, where the bandages are soaked through with blood.

“You would not have survived if it were not for us,” the doctor’s words sound distant, Bucky’s focus on the man beside him is sharp. Without warning, he digs his fingers in the bandages, ripping them from the bloody stump.

Bucky can’t even hold back the piercing howl that rips its way from his throat. His body thrashes as the Russian continues to rid the wound of gauze.

Stitches and scabs are pulled roughly from his shoulder, and blood runs underneath Bucky’s body as he struggles. The soldier finishes up, and moves aside for the doctor once more, who had used the distraction to gather his equipment. He’s holding what looks like a small blowtorch.

“Barnes. Sergeant,” Bucky chokes through his sobs, “Three-two-five-five-se-” His words are interrupted by a scream when the doctor turns the flaming blowtorch to his shoulder. The Russian soldier holds Bucky’s chest down.

The smell of burning flesh, acrid and cloying, invades Bucky’s nostrils. White-hot pain rushes through his body like lightning. His throat burns, quieting the pained sounds to sobs and whimpers. The doctor cuts off the torch and sets it on the table holding various medical tools, picks up more gauze, then orders something to the soldier in Russian.

Tears rush from Bucky’s eyes as the straps across his arm and chest are unfastened and his torso is pulled into a sitting position. His nose is running, but he can’t muster the strength to lift his remaining arm. Bucky’s face falls forward, chin nearly hitting his chest, and he leans unwittingly against the soldier. The blood is tacky where it had leaked to his back and side.

Bandages are placed over the cauterized wound, and Bucky can barely feel the shoulder any more. _Nerve damage,_ his mind helpfully informs him, and another set of sobs rattle through Bucky’s body. He’s pushed back to the table. The soldier lets Bucky’s head hit the metal without even so much as an attempt to prevent it. Pain throbs behind closed eyelids. _When did I close my eyes?_

As the straps are roughly tightened over his chest once more, he sluggishly opens his eyes. The soldier and doctor are leaving, heavy door slamming shut behind them. Bucky’s eyelids slide shut once more.

_Steve will come for me. He won’t let me go through this, not a second time._

_This can’t be the end of the line._

Bucky dreams of rushing wind and blood-tainted snow.

* * *

Consciousness floods back to Bucky with a jolt, body tensing as he strains his ears for the source of the loud noise that had caused him to wake.. The lights flicker on, and he realizes with a grimace that it was the KGB officer from before entering the room. He has no way of telling what time it is or how long he has been lying here. Bucky looks down at the man as he efficiently unbuckles the straps holding Bucky’s legs down. He takes a calming breath as the soldier moves upwards to release the rest of the thick restraints. They had rubbed the skin raw, angry horizontal stripes marring Bucky’s body.

Bucky carefully swings his legs over the side of the table. His muscles tense in anticipation, then he is striking with his right arm at the soldier. Head racing, he misjudges the distance and the soldier swiftly grabs Bucky’s arm to twist it behind his back. The soldier shoves him, bending Bucky at the waist against the table with his arm held securely to his back. Bucky’s cheek lands in the dried blood from before. Flakes chip off and stick to his stubble.

Bucky grits his teeth as the soldier grasps his hair and slams his face into the metal, just once, before hauling him up by the grip on Bucky’s hair and arm. A dizzying rush of blood spurts from his nose. Bucky struggles with each step as he is pushed through the door and down the hallway. Outside another thick metal door stands an armed guard, and he opens the door for the soldier to shove Bucky inside.

He feels rough hands stripping off the black pants and boxers that served as Bucky’s only source of warmth and dignity. Bucky didn’t have time to react before his knees are kicked from behind and he is sent sprawling on the gritty floor. His breath rushes from his chest with a muted grunt as his arm fails to break his fall.

Footsteps signal the soldier’s exit, and the door squeals as it is swung shut. _You’re a prisoner of war yet again,_ Bucky thinks with no small amount of vitriol. He curls up on his right side.

Blinking against the threat of hot tears stinging his eyes, Bucky prays that Steve will find him and kick some KGB ass.

The only visible light is a slat of dim yellow, spilling from underneath the door. The cold seeps into every muscle, every bone, invading Bucky’s body in a way that reminds him of free-falling through icy, roaring winds from a train to a ravine. He lays unmoving for an indeterminate amount of time, the only movement to break the stillness is shivering.

Bucky feels his heart rate pick up, his skin prickles with sweat. The walls are closing in, suffocating, stifling, no escape. Memories flash in the dark. Scalpels, needles, napalm-heat coursing through veins. His breath quickens until he can’t hear anything over the rushing static in his ears, barely aware of the boot that rolls him onto his back. Wide eyes unseeing, Bucky finally registers the noise beneath the static; his frantic screams. He scrambles to the far corner of his cell, strangled sobs torment his lungs between each gasp of breath. The soldier returns and pushes the guard aside to enter the close space.

Bucky gasps and flinches violently as freezing-cold water splashes over his skin. It feels as though it’s searing through his skin. He blinks it from his lashes and his eyes snap to the figure in front of him.

“Barnes. Sergeant,” Bucky stutters, “three-two-five-”

“Shut the fuck up,” words laced heavily with disgust are spat at him as a boot sharply impacts with the ribs exposed by his missing arm.

Bucky yelps, tries his damnedest to cover his side with his right arm, and continues. “Three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight.” He glares up at the soldier.

“Barnes. Sergeant. Three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight,” his voice rises steadily to a shout, his body following until he is standing on legs that tremble from pain and weakness. Chest rising and falling from the effort to take in oxygen after the panic had subsided, Bucky defiantly bares his teeth.

An action that is rewarded promptly with a fist to his temple. Bucky, knocked to the side from the force of the blow, huffs out a laugh. He’s dizzy with pain and a reckless need to fight back that would make even Steve-goddamn-Rogers envious.

Bucky counters with his own punch, which connects with a satisfying crack, and watches as the soldier stumbles backwards. Blood wells from the splits in his knuckles, but he pays it no mind as he makes a break for the open door. The light bulb above the door flickers, a minute flash of darkness, and the strike of the butt of a rifle crumples Bucky to the ground. The guard had been waiting for him in the hallway.

His vision swims, blood leaking steadily from a laceration gracing his cheekbone, and Bucky’s limbs refuse to cooperate. A groan makes its way past Bucky’s lips as the soldier drags him back into the cell by his legs. The damp grit digs into his chest and face, irritating the scrapes from the restraints that had just barely healed. Bucky tries pushing himself off the ground, but the motion is cut to an abrupt halt as the soldier slams his heel on Bucky’s hand. The hoarse scream echoes in the cell as Bucky feels his pinky and ring fingers snap. The boot twists viciously, and Bucky gasps. He can feel as the shattered bones grind together. Vision whiting out and muscles twitching in pain, Bucky turns to his side to cradle the hand to his body after the boot is removed.

“Shut up, dog,” the soldier spits at Bucky. Tepid saliva lands on Bucky’s side, runs sluggishly down his ribs, causes Bucky to shiver as the warmth permeates his skin for a temporary, blessed instant.

The cell door creaks shut. Relief mixes with the pain crashing over his body in waves.

 _I had ’em on the ropes._ He can almost hear Steve’s laugh, his response. _I believe you._

Pain shoots through his fingers with each breath. His body is still damp. The cold air of the cell clings to the sheen of water and sweat mixed with grime, drying blood, minuscule pebbles.

Tears drip to the dirty floor, and Bucky forces himself to clench his teeth against the whimpers and sobs that fight with all the force of a hurricane to be released from the confines of Bucky’s rib cage, windpipe, lips pressed firmly together. None but the darkness and rodents skittering quietly in the walls bear witness to the first crack in Bucky Barnes’ seemingly impenetrable armor.

Bucky rests his head on the ground to wait for either sleep or exhaustion to lay claim to his battered and fragmented body.

_Where the fuck are you, Stevie?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Bucky starts laughing, a hysterical kind that is fueled by the flash of fury that shows on the officer’s face. 'Stop goading them. Why do you always make things worse for yourself?'_
> 
> [a darkfic exploring the torture methods of the KGB and HYDRA, the effects they had on Bucky Barnes, and the result of The Winter Soldier program]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, blanket warning for HYDRA Trash Party content, even if it is fairly light for now. it's going to get steadily worse as the fic progresses.
> 
> also, please excuse any mistakes or errors; i wrote this all in one go and didn't scour it for errors like i usually do. i didn't sleep and it is 5 am and i have work soon ahahah

Waking up to a bucket of cold water being thrown on him, Bucky sits up with urgency. He wipes the water from his eyes, winces when the shattered fingers are jostled. He squints at the door. The light bulb seems brighter than before, the KGB officer a silhouette against the light. A command is barked in Russian, and Bucky can only assume what it means. He stands.

His head is still pounding, reminiscent of the bands playing jovial and loud in the dance halls he took Steve and dames to.

The officer kicks Bucky back to the gritty floor, water drips from his clammy skin. He grimaces as his fingers come in contact with the ground of the cell. He looks up at the man, unsure of the intentions of the officer. The answer comes in the form of a rifle being slammed into Bucky’s back. He falls on his elbow.

“Did you not hear me? You are nothing but a dog, and dogs do not stand,” the officer’s voice is both malevolent and calm. The words are accentuated with a sharp kick to Bucky’s ribs. He crawls on his knees, his single arm hindering the movement, towards the open door. The armed guard is blocking the path to the other end of the hall, so Bucky turns to the left.

 _This is your chance,_ his heart rate picks up. _You better fucking run._

Bucky scrambles to his feet with all the haste his tired and battered body can muster. Before he can even make a move, it feels like he’s running, like the hallway is a thousand feet long, like he can see Steve behind the thick iron door at the end of the hall. A boot sticks out underneath him to interrupt his leg’s hurried motion, and Bucky’s falling hard on his left shoulder. Pebbles and grit digs into the thin bandages, and it hurts like hell.

Barks of laughter rings through his head, humiliation flushes through his body as he struggles to put his right arm under his chest to lift himself up. Bucky feels the heavy weight of the officer as he puts one boot on his back, increasing the pressure the more Bucky tries to get his arm underneath himself. A half-sob of frustration escapes Bucky’s mouth. The soldiers are laughing at him, he’s _so fucking helpless and worthless and I don’t even deserve to be saved, do I?_

“Get up, dog, now!” The officer is still holding him down, making it impossible for Bucky to get up, and he can’t help but start crying. He’s desperately trying to dislodge the officer’s foot, tears and snot running down his face. The noises he is making sound pathetic, shameful.

Bucky stops struggling and goes limp. He’s sobbing and wailing into the dirt now.

“I can’t,” it’s nothing more than a whimper, a whine. Bucky’s barely aware of the weight being removed from his spine.

“On your hands and knees, dog.”

Bucky complies, choking back small sobs.

He is led at an excruciatingly painful pace to a room similar to the one he first woke up in, but there is a reclining chair in place of a stainless steel table. The doctor is standing to the side of it, and he gestures for Bucky to get into it. Wordlessly, he climbs up the chair to finally settle into the chilly, uncomfortable seat. The officer hastily straps Bucky’s legs, arm, and chest into restraints.

Finally, Bucky takes in the rest of the room. Medical equipment, various tools and items he’s never seen before, a multitude of bottles and syringes. They reside in cabinets and on tables lining the rooms of the wall. Most of the tools look rusted and well-used.

“What do you want with me?” Bucky’s voice is high, nerves strung tight. The doctor ignores him, and Bucky anxiously twitches his healing fingers. A small tin cup is held to his lips, and Bucky drinks the water without question. He gasps once it’s empty, not realising exactly how thirsty he had been. The doctor steps out of Bucky’s sight to refill the cup, and it is then held just far enough away from his mouth that he has to strain to reach it. The cup is filled once more, and Bucky immediately strains against the thick strap over his chest. The doctor holds it out of reach.

“Please,” Bucky whimpers, pleads with his eyes as best he can. The doctor leisurely pours the water out, the trickle making Bucky swallow thickly. He watches as it becomes a small puddle on the dusty tile floor. He hears the doctor snap his fingers, and Bucky’s eyes dart up to the man’s face.

“Dogs are not to speak unless ordered to,” the doctor’s words make something akin to shame rush across Bucky’s skin like the feeling of a hundred prickling ants. He looks down at the water, then to his lap. His brows furrow.

“I am not a fucking dog, and you cannot keep me here,” Bucky’s eyes are ablaze with determination, all remnants of the shame he felt pushed to the back of his mind. _I am not going to let them break me. I have to hold out, Steve’s probably on his way now._

The doctor grins, and the bravado Bucky had so brazenly displayed falters. Before he can even think about going on the defensive, the doctor is wrenching Bucky’s still healing fingers back. He can’t hold in the shout of pain, the desperate gasping breaths.

“I am fascinated by its advanced healing rate,” the doctor is pushing Bucky’s pinky towards the back of his hand with idle interest. The feel of his finger breaking again and shifting to accommodate the impossible movement is excruciatingly sluggish, like molasses dripping down the side of hotcakes in the summer heat of a Brooklyn apartment. Bucky chokes on his own saliva.

The doctor relinquishes his hold on Bucky’s finger, and steps away to rifle through a cabinet. He comes back with a couple splints and a roll of bandages. The broken ring and pinky fingers are wrapped and splinted with swift efficiency. The doctor pulls a pair of scissors from a table nearby. The gauze covering Bucky’s arm is cut off, the action hindered only slightly by the restraint over his chest.

Bucky can’t bring himself to look at the stump where his left arm should be.

A calloused hand grips Bucky’s chin and forces his eyes to meet those of the doctor’s. “Dogs will be punished for disobedience. You have nobody but yourself to blame for your injuries, you provoked your superior officer.” Bucky’s brows furrow. “Do you understand?” A nod, and the hand leaves his chin with a rasp of skin against stubble.

Bucky stares at the officer standing beside the door. “I didn’t do anything to make that asshole attack me,” the words leave Bucky’s mouth before his brain can remember to put his sense of self-preservation on the top of his list of priorities.

Without warning, a knife is plunged into his thigh. Bucky thrashes his leg, trying to break free of his restraints. “What the fu-” Bucky’s shout is cut off by the doctor’s slap. His cheek stings, like the static of a sleeping limb amplified by each electric pulse of his heartbeat. Bucky snaps his head back to glare at the man. The knife is removed with a cruel, deliberate slowness. He can feel each jagged edge of the wound catching on uneven steel. Bucky is gagging by the time it clatters onto the table.

“See what happens when you disrespect those superior to you?” Bucky’s thigh burns, and he struggles to stamp out the fear and shame he feels welling up inside his chest. Blood oozes in a steady stream down the side of his leg. The wound throbs in time with his pulse, and he can feel the exposed nerves and torn muscles. It’s not deep, but it certainly isn’t shallow. Surgically precise is the only way to describe the location and depth of the wound. The doctor wipes the blood away with a scratchy gauze, then tapes a bandage over it.

Biting his bottom lip to keep from making the situation any worse, Bucky looks down at the now-forgotten puddle of water. Most of it has trickled into the cracks in the tile. It makes him think of the time he had taken a bath with Steve, an innocent non-event to simply save water. The tub had overflowed, and lukewarm water collected in puddles across the uneven tile. Bucky had avoided Steve’s eyes the entire time, rushing his washing and making a break for the bathroom door before he could do something he might regret. _I have so many regrets,_ Bucky worries the skin of his lip until it breaks and blood beads up. He tries to stem the flow of iron-thick crimson with a flick of his tongue.

“What are you?” The inquiry breaks through Bucky’s escape in his thoughts. He grits his teeth, stubbornly makes eye contact with the doctor, and replies truthfully.

“Sergeant,” a rush of adrenaline at his disobedience. “Three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight.” A grin, and Bucky feels as though he is flying from this recklessness. “I don’t give a shit what you do to me, because I know Captain America himself is going to bust down your door and kick your asses. Starting with you.” Bucky jerks his head at the soldier. “You’re all so fucking weak, just a bunch of cowards.”

Bucky starts laughing, a hysterical kind that is fueled by the flash of fury that shows on the officer’s face. _Stop goading them. Why do you always make things worse for yourself?_

The adrenaline washes over Bucky, and he starts pushing on the restraints. The doctor hurries to a cabinet across the room, one that contains vials, syringes, and needles. The metal fastening the straps on his chest and arm to the chair groan. The soldier takes a step towards Bucky just as the metal breaks from the chair. Bucky is scrabbling at the restraints on his ankles when the officer’s rifle presses against Bucky’s forehead.

He stills his hand, and Bucky sees something in the officer’s eyes. _Fear._

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, dog?” The officer snarls, pushes the barrel of the rife forward, digs it harder into the skin just above the center of Bucky’s eyebrows. Bucky looks absolutely feral, his entire body shaking from adrenaline and exertion. His splinted fingers ache from the strain.

The doctor roughly stabs a needle into Bucky’s neck, and he gasps as his vision starts burring. He pants heavily, thinks of a thin chest heaving for breath, eyelids clenched tightly over blue eyes in concentration. Bucky slumps back into the chair, head lolling to the side. He’s still conscious, he can fight them, he can get back to Steve.

He can’t move his arm, or his legs. What feels like a dozen hands begin grasping at his extremities. They clutch and claw at his skin, ripping it from his body and replacing each inch of flesh with a blanket of tingling numbness. Bucky can see vague shapes, can hear voices just above the surface of the water he is surely under.

Minutes pass, and Bucky begins to breach the surface of cotton and liquid. They stand above him, discuss him as though he is not even there, and the next observation he has is that there are twice as many restraints now. They’re tight, bound to rub Bucky’s skin raw once more.

With bleary eyes, Bucky watches the officer take up his post beside the door. The doctor holds the cup to his lips. As Bucky sips at the water, something nags at the back of his mind to say ‘thank you’; to show gratitude, but he squashes it as quick as his sluggish brain can.

“Take it back to the cell,” the doctor is leaving.

Bucky’s eyebrows furrow slightly at the use of object pronouns, tries to protest, but cannot find the strength to speak. The officer removes the straps and hauls Bucky to his feet. Legs shaking like a newborn fawn, he stumbles when the man nudges Bucky with his rifle.

When he falls to his knees, Bucky begins crawling without being ordered to. His fingers ache. He makes it to the familiar sight of his cell, and immediately curls up in the corner. _Maybe I’ll die in my sleep._ Bucky grimly imagines freezing to death, being shot while deep in a nightmare of needles and restraints.

“Disobedient dogs do not have the privilege of being fed,” the officer sneers down at Bucky’s shivering form before exiting the cell, slamming the heavy door shut with more force than necessary.

The fogginess of the sedative lulls Bucky to sleep, and for that, he is grateful.

* * *

Sharp pains in his abdomen are the reason for Bucky’s awakening. He doesn’t care if it’s been one hour or ten, he needs to eat. His internal clock is shot, but Bucky can guess that it has been three or four days since his rescue.

_Capture, you mean capture. This was not a fucking rescue._

Without a second thought, Bucky starts crawling to the door. It’s awkward because of his broken fingers, but he manages to knock on the heavy steel with the knuckle of his thumb.

“Hey! Can anyone hear me?” Bucky raises his voice. “You have to fucking feed me, you heartless assholes!” When he receives no answer, Bucky flips onto his back to kick at the door with his uninjured leg. If they won’t answer him, he’ll make such a racket that they have no choice but to come to check on him.

Thirty seconds pass, and finally Bucky feels the door being pushed open. He scrambles backwards, trying to get up from his vulnerable position. He stops when he sees the officer’s hands are empty.

“A dog has to earn its food,” the voice is level and measured, and Bucky’s stomach flips.

When Bucky nods, the soldier reaches his hand into a pocket and throws something at Bucky. His eyes land on the object, and it registers as a dog treat. Outrage floods his system, both cold and hot at the same time, until his stomach growls with a longing and a desperation that Bucky refuses to acknowledge.

“I am not going to eat dog food,” Bucky speaks low, and feels immediate regret when the soldier turns his body a fraction as if to leave.

Panic rises in Bucky’s throat like acidic bile, and he quickly picks up the small bit of food. It’s shoved into his mouth before he can really think about it. The taste nearly makes him gag, but he swallows it down without incident. He doesn’t know when he’s going to be able to eat next.

The officer’s expression is smug, and if Bucky hadn’t been doubled over in hunger pain before, he would have revolted against that look.

“Good dog,” the praise washes over Bucky much like cool rain in the stifling heat of summer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun/hilarious story time: i actually have been stabbed before, so i tried to put it into words the best way i could. of course, the thrice-stabbing was an accident, because i probably should not have tried to hug my sister while she was washing a parring knife but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ what can ya do?
> 
> I AM TERRIBLY SORRY FOR THE LONG WAIT BETWEEN UPDATES, i got a job and have been avoiding writing this because it is emotionally draining and my reasons for writing this are extremely personal.
> 
> come visit my [tumblr](http://ace-bucky.tumblr.com/) so we can cry over bucky barnes


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The fingers of his right hand roam over his ribs. Bucky imagines he can feel the healed fractures, the broken skin, the bruises. They jut out from his body like they’re trying to escape. His ribs are the cage and his heart is the bird, though it has already given up the fight._
> 
> [a darkfic exploring the methods of the KGB and HYDRA, the effects they had on Bucky Barnes, and the result of the Winter Soldier program]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so sorry for the wait, i had writer's block! had to scrap this entire chapter and rewrite it, so it's shorter than the others. i'm trying to move the story along quicker, while still focusing on some key points.
> 
> hope y'all enjoy! (as much as one can enjoy bucky being treated terribly, i guess)

A week in KGB captivity. Bucky feels as though it’s been longer, but he has no way of telling. Seven days of being fed nothing but the small _dog treats,_ which Bucky wishes he would stop wolfing down and just refuse to eat until he starves to death, but that plan flies right out the proverbial window and his mouth practically salivates when the officer holds his hand out, treat resting on his palm. That’s only when Bucky does what the bastard wants, though, which isn’t very frequent. More often than not, he’s beaten for the smallest hint of disobedience.

_Steve probably just got held up, but he’s going to find me. I know he will, he has to._

Until then, Bucky grits his teeth and revolts in small ways as often as he can. He’s still a Sergeant in the Army of the United States of America, after all, and he will not give some Russian assholes the satisfaction of breaking him.

The cell door creaks open, and the officer makes his appearance. He sets a bucket down in a corner beside the door. For a whole week, Bucky has not been allowed to do anything by himself, every bodily function is performed to the dictation of the officer or doctor. It’s embarrassing as hell, but it at least keeps Bucky’s cell as sanitary as it’ll ever be; grimy floor and rat-infested walls notwithstanding.

Bucky stubbornly refuses to move, instead tracks the officer’s movements with nothing but his eyes. His body is still bare, but any discomfort or shame he felt at being exposed is long gone. Bucky is gaunt, much thinner than he was before his fall from the train in the Alps.

“Your body is consuming itself because you are not behaving, and thus not receiving sustenance,” the officer does not move from his position at the door. Bucky hasn’t heard that many words come from the man’s mouth until now. "It is your own fault."

“I want real food, not fucking dog treats,” Bucky spits the words out as he sits up. His vision swims with the effort to move.

The calm demeanor is replaced by one of indignant outrage, and the officer stomps forward until he is in Bucky’s personal space. Fingers are tangled roughly in his hair, and he’s being pulled upwards.

“You are nothing more than a bitch, and you will take what you are given,” Bucky’s right hand scrabbles for purchase on the man’s wrist, his legs trying to push his body in the direction his hair is being yanked. “Is that fucking clear?”

Bucky gasps, tries to nod, and can feel the pop and sting of hair being ripped from his scalp. “Y-yes,” he stutters, and the pressure on his scalp increases.

“Yes, sir!” it comes out as a bark, reminiscent of Bucky using that very response during his training and service. The officer loosens his grip and Bucky drops to the gritty floor.

“If it is not obedient, a dog does not get privileges,” the officer says matter-of-factly as he turns from Bucky’s gasping form. He watches in disbelief as the man picks the bucket back up and exits the cell.

A loud groan escapes Bucky’s throat as he doubles over, arm clutched to his abdomen. The hunger pangs are getting worse, and he just fucked himself over. _Why can’t you keep your big, fat mouth shut and just take an order?_

He can’t fall back asleep, and as the hours pass, his bladder reminds him just how terrible of an idea that was. That was the first chance he had to take a piss in what must have been 10 hours. Bucky runs his index finger through the dirt, forming little swirls and doodles. He tries to stifle a laugh at the image that comes to his head, of pissing on the officer the next time he comes into Bucky’s cell, on his shined boots and thick wool coat. Bucky then thinks of the multiple beatings he’s received, of the pain he’s endured thus far. His bruised ribs and freshly healed fingers seem to throb at that, and his laughter dies off. _It’s not worth it._

By the time the officer returns, Bucky is whining and restlessly squirming on the gritty floor. He is empty-handed, and Bucky can’t help the small “please” that escapes.

The officer stalks around Bucky, his gait predatory. He pauses in his movement to erase Bucky’s drawings with his boot, kicking the dirt towards the wriggling body on the ground before continuing his circuit around Bucky. The officer comes to a halt in front of Bucky, and stands still until he looks up.

“I am pleased. You have not made a mess, and should be rewarded. However, ” Bucky’s breath hitches at his words. “You must show proper gratitude.”

Bucky nods. _I’ll do anything._

“Clean the dirt from my boot,” the order makes Bucky jump. He moves until he’s sitting at the officer’s feet, and brings his hand to the dusty boot. Bucky’s hand is kicked away. “With your tongue, dog,” a smugness creeps into the officer’s voice.

Bucky bends over it, hand planted firmly beside it to support his weight. He hesitates for a second, then dips his head down before he can stop himself. Bucky retches at the gritty, earthy taste. He swipes his tongue over the boot until it glistens with his saliva. Bucky pulls back, looks up at the officer with pleading eyes. The officer jerks his head at the armed guard, and the bucket is placed inside the cell’s interior.

“Good boy,” the officer is gazing down at Bucky much like one would a pet. Bucky convinces himself the flood of endorphins he feels is from relief, but a small part of himself gushes at the praise. The officer steps away towards the door.

“You may relieve yourself,” a direct order phrased as a request graciously granted.

Bucky manages to body slam the intense feeling of gratitude and instead whispers, “thank you.” He ignores the meek and submissive tone.

 

* * *

 

 _Three weeks._ Bucky counts the pebbles on the floor again, his makeshift calendar. Three weeks as a prisoner of war and he has already done so much shit just to get a scrap of food. He stares at the wall. Each detail of the cell is etched into his memory. He’s so fucking bored.

The fingers of his right hand roam over his ribs. Bucky imagines he can feel the healed fractures, the broken skin, the bruises. They jut out from his body like they’re trying to escape. His ribs are the cage and his heart is the bird, though it has already given up the fight.

 _Steve would be so fucking disappointed,_ Bucky swallows down bile. The taste of it is washed away with the that of his weakness. Iron, burning flesh, and dirt. _Weak. Pathetic._

_Worthless._

Bucky screams in rage and defeat, his throat clutches at the animal sound. He lunges at the door, clawing and banging on metal until his fingernails chip and his knuckles bleed. Bucky collapses in a heap, sobbing and wailing, as the officer pushes into the cell.

“Soldier, your companion abandoned you.”

Bucky’s throat constricts.

“The KGB have rescued you, we have taken you in and cared for you.”

The officer pauses until Bucky looks up with wide, red eyes. In his hand is a tray of steamed vegetables and what looks like roast beef. Bucky’s stomach rumbles with yearning.

“A dog shows gratitude for the care its owners give it.”

Bucky throws himself at the officer’s boots without a second thought. Words flood from his mouth, “thank you, sir, please, sir.” Still the tray is held out of Bucky’s reach.

“A dog is,” the officer prompts , raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“Obedient,” his voice is tinged with adoration, submission, and Bucky is floating.

The tray is set on the ground, but Bucky holds his gaze on the officer. The man nods, and only then does Bucky scarf down the piping hot food. His fingers are dirty, but the meat is so tender and heavenly for a starved thing like Bucky.

“Good boy,” the words bring a familiar warmth that spreads over Bucky’s body.

_Good boy, Soldier._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come visit my [tumblr](http://ace-bucky.tumblr.com/) so we can cry over bucky barnes


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You’re no lamb. You’re not innocent or pure. You’re filthy, worthless, pathetic._
> 
>  
> 
> [a darkfic exploring the methods of the KGB and HYDRA, the effects they had on Bucky Barnes, and the result of the Winter Soldier program]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> really short chapter, but it's late and i have been at work all day and i have an early shift tomorrow. i am sorry for the long wait between chapters but i hope that i can make it up to y'all by writing more sooner on my day off. enjoy, trash-dwellers

Some things have changed. Bucky has stopped keeping track of the days, the weeks, maybe even the months. He flinches at movement, the rise in volume of a voice, the steady beat of footsteps. He whimpers at touch, even if it’s harsh and violent. Bucky craves it. He’s gaining weight, the doctor has begun feeding him a mushy nutrient goop through a tube. Learning Russian, understanding nonverbal commands. _Forgetting himself._

“Dog,” the bark of the officer’s voice in the stagnant air makes Bucky jump. “It is time for your training.”

Bucky is led to the door at the end of the hall. He has never been allowed this far, and he immediately shakes and whimpers, anticipating punishment. Bright light spills from under the metal, and when the officer opens it, Bucky cries out. The fluorescent lights burn his deprived retinas, yet he is being pushed into the large room with no small amount of force. He stumbles, not noticing when he crashes into another body. Eyes leaking with tears, Bucky stares at the group of men he has been shoved into.

Expletives are shouted in Russian. Bucky is pushed, his arm cannot catch him, and he falls hard. His knee is scraped, blood beading up lazily. He looks frantically for the officer, the only person familiar to him, and sees him closing the metal door. Bucky is alone.

A quiet whine escapes Bucky’s throat from the abandonment. Bucky is scared. His gaze darts around the men, never making eye contact, never uncurling from his protective posture on the ground. One kicks him in the side, shouts something that Bucky thinks to mean “stand up,” and Bucky obeys. A noise both sharp and haughty rings out around him. _Laughter; they’re laughing at you._

They circle him like sharks in bloody water, hungry lions around a frail lamb.

_You’re no lamb. You’re not innocent or pure. You’re filthy, worthless, pathetic._

As a wave of tears fall from Bucky’s eyes, he lowers them in shame. The doctor chooses that moment to make himself known, voice hinting at curiosity, “you are going to test its healing capabilities.” When he addresses them, the soldiers halt their movement. Bucky doesn’t look up. The doctor’s retreating footsteps echo in the emptiness of Bucky’s ribcage, reverberating through his fear, his pain, his hunger.

The first kick is unexpected, and Bucky stumbles. Hissing, he regains his balance, until a heavy boot slams into his ankle. Bucky falls, feels the bones fracturing, all of his focus honed in on that point of anguish. He’s gasping like a fish out of water, an almost dramatic show of weakness.

“Stand the fuck up and walk,” a man beside him speaks, and what else can Bucky do but comply?

Bucky sets his jaw and takes a step. He’s panting, sweating, and white as a sheet after he manages to take seven paces. The injured ankle is being favored, and the doctor makes a disappointed clucking noise and shakes his head. Bucky flushes with shame, though he does not know why he is upset at his captor’s negativity.

“Again,” an order that the soldiers follow with a cocky enthusiasm.

Bucky screams when the tread of a boot snaps four toes with a well-aimed stomp. His steps do not falter, but they do slow down. Harsh huffs of breath and a grimace are the only outward signs of pain that Bucky shows. It feels as though the pain is focused ten-fold, his blood pounding faster, his body kicking into over-drive to heal the fractures. The doctor nods, and Bucky turns on his uninjured heel to face the men. His face is calm and still as a cadaver. The soldiers’ jeers die down, some laugh uncomfortably.

The only warning the man who broke Bucky’s bones gets is a hand wrapping around his throat. The man’s face is wrenched in a shocked expression, feet dangling inches above the ground, as Bucky crushes his trachea with a single hand. After a moment of fearful immobility, the other soldiers rush to the man’s aid. He falls to the ground before they can reach Bucky.

His expression has not changed.

Pistol muzzles are jabbed against Bucky’s body, the stench of their fear is cloying in his nose. The soldiers are shouting frantically at him, the doctor is silent, _it is compliant._ Bucky drops to his knees and screams.

They’re still yelling, still surrounding him, still _there_ , his injuries are throbbing, and it’s too much input at once. Overwhelmed, Bucky doubles over and dry heaves. He succumbs to the pain and exhaustion and his vision wavers.

“Good boy,” the doctor’s low timbre floats across the room to sit heavy in Bucky’s stomach.

Bucky faints.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come visit my [tumblr](http://ace-bucky.tumblr.com/) so we can cry over bucky barnes


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warning for blood, injury, torture, etc, as usual.

When Bucky wakes up, he’s strapped down again. The KGB sure do love their restraints. Bucky’s foot and ankle are taped up, bones held firmly in place. Bucky has a moment of curiosity and tries to move them. Where there should be stabs of pain or the grinding of shattered bones, there is only numbness. _I can’t even feel them._ Bucky raises his head at the sound of someone clearing their throat.

“You should have kept going,” the doctor says. Just then, Bucky remembers what he did. It plays through his mind distorted and wrong, like watching a motion picture through a mirror.

It hits him all at once; the feel of bruising skin, the frailness of a human’s throat in his grasp, the amount of pressure it took to collapse the trachea. Bucky gasps for air. He feels ill.

“He is not dead,” the words feel like relief to Bucky, until the doctor grasps Bucky’s face, fingernails digging into his cheeks. “Follow your orders, or you will face the consequences.”

The doctor’s face is a few short inches from his face, and Bucky can smell the stale cigarettes on the man’s breath. His breathing becomes erratic. “That wasn’t me,” Bucky whispers, “I didn’t want to do that.” The doctor lets go, pushes Bucky’s face to the side so that it slams into the headrest.

“Please, I didn’t mean to do that to him.” Bucky’s crying, refuses to open his eyes.

Calloused fingers run through his hair, an almost soothing motion, until they creep towards Bucky’s throat and grasp harshly. He chokes, opens his eyes to the man standing before him. Bucky struggles, can’t get away. “Stanislav,” the doctor speaks softly, and the hands are removed. _Stanislav._ Bucky coughs. _So he does have a name._

“We will start the treatment,” the doctor is filling a syringe while the officer fits some sort of contraption over Bucky’s head. The needle is inserted in Bucky’s right arm, the plunger pushes a cold liquid into his vein. As he feels his body go slack, panic rises in his chest.

“No, hey, what is this? What are you going to do to me?” He tries to turn towards the officer. “Stanislav, please!”

For that, he is rewarded with a firm kick to his healing foot. _Yep, that is definitely still broken._

“Keep my name from your filthy mouth, dog.” Electricity crackles through the air like a thick fog a split second before he feels it. Bucky’s body tries its best to fight the crude tranquilizer, metabolizing it at an inhuman rate. The wood armrest creaks under the pressure of his fingers clenching around it. It’s agony, lightning rushing through the neurons in his brain, through the veins in his body, through his thoughts. He chokes, drool runs down his chin.

The contraption is flicked off, and Bucky leans forward, panting and huffing like a horse after a race. He can’t catch his breath, can’t relax his tense body, can’t even think beyond simple functions.

“What is your name?”

A wheezing laugh escapes Bucky’s chest, “Barnes.”

“What is your purpose?”

Defiance ignites behind the pained glaze over his eyes, “to kick your asses.”

The room’s other occupants shake their heads. A nod, then the switch is hit again. Bucky clenches his teeth and endures.

It’s longer this time, Bucky can tell, his body has run through the tranquilizer already. The electricity drags under his skin and into his muscle like claws, and when it ends, he twitches. He can feel the tension in his own body.

“What is your name?”

“My name is James Buchanan Barnes.”

“And what is your purpose?”

“To serve the United States Army and win the war.”

A second dose of shoddy tranquilizer is administered. The procedure is repeated. The voltage is increased.

Bucky muffles a scream by biting down as hard as he can, sobs as he feels and hears a tooth crack under the pressure of his jaw. He will endure, if not for him, then for Steve.

_Stevie is still out there. Can’t die here and let that punk have all the fun, can I?_

“Name?”

“Fuck you!” Spittle flies from Bucky’s mouth, his heart is pounding so hard that he’s certain each pump can be seen from outside his body.

“Again, but he needs some encouragement.” The doctor holds a photograph of Captain America in front of Bucky’s face. “You remember him, right? Steven Grant Rogers; he’s dead.”

At Bucky’s snarl, the electricity is set loose like wild wolves in Bucky’s skull. He screams, sobs, thrashes his body.

He’s vaguely aware of something missing, something he can’t quite put his finger on. Brown hair tied with a purple ribbon, the feeling of a hand touching his, but he can’t understand it. Who is this little girl? The lightning stops, and a voice whispers in the back of his head, “’Becca.” He does not know who that is.

“What is your name?”

“It’s..” a stutter in his brain, he repeats what the memory of Steve says, “Bucky.”

“What is your purpose?”

“To protect Steve,” Bucky sighs, exhaustion setting in.

The doctor shares a look with Stanislav. Barnes is far too tired to try to decipher it. “I think it’s time to return it to the cell.”

Bucky is only partially aware of being unrestrained and the machinery being moved away, but he’s too tired and pained to try anything. _If Steve were here, he’d tell me to quit being a baby and just fight._ He sighs. The officer drags him to his feet, and escorts Bucky the entire way. Stanislav seems almost gentle, and it makes bile rise in Bucky’s throat.

As soon as the door closes, Bucky collapses. There are raw burns on his temples, his scalp, the injection marks are itchy, his limbs feel wooden and unreal; the list of grievances is much too long. He can’t sleep, instead wracks his brain for the answer to who that little girl is.

After hours of mumbling and sifting through memory after memory, Bucky writes out the name, Becca, in the dirt with a shaky finger. _Becca, Becca, Becca,_ he can’t figure out if he’s saying it out loud or repeating it in the small, burned out space in his head. It’s right there on the tip of his tongue but no matter what he does, Bucky just cannot remember who she is. His head is pounding, like the memories can’t flow, the neurons can’t connect. He swipes it away with a shout of frustration, tears falling freely now.

_So that’s what they’re trying to do, huh? Take away my memories, piece by piece, until I give them what they want? Hell no. Fuck them and their torture._

_They will never take Stevie away from me._

It became a mantra, _“Steve, my Stevie,”_ that Bucky thinks at every moment of fear, pain, at every obstacle between him and his best friend, his other half.

Stanislav came back the next day, or what Bucky assumed was the next day, to retrieve him.

“Y’know,” Bucky’s thin body betrays his cocky tone, “you don’t scare me any more, Stanislav.” Bucky sees the man’s eye twitch, restrained anger simmering beneath his collected demeanor. Bucky wants to push him to the boiling point, to try to find a weakness or something to be exploited. He straightens his back and steps into the officer’s personal space.

“I know your name now, and you are going to prison for this,” Bucky pushes a finger into Stanislav’s chest. “Steve is going to kick your weak ass first.”

The man does not budge. Bucky falters, steels himself. “Get the fuck out of my way and let me go.”

Bucky shoulders past Stanislav and steps into the hallway. The armed guard is nowhere in sight. Stanislav grabs Bucky’s arm, wrenches it behind his back, and pushes him face-first against the wall. Bucky’s heartbeat picks up at the bruising grip and the growl in his ear.

“We have your file, little dog. Do you want to know who she is? Rebecca?”

His chest constricts.

“I heard you, crying about her,” Stanislav’s voice drops to a whisper. “If you’re good, I’ll tell you everything about her.”

Bucky knows it’s a manipulation, he does, but he can’t help but nod. When the man moves away from him and grasps the back of his neck, Bucky obediently walks to the lab. The doctor is waiting, equipment at the ready. Bucky swallows around the lump of fear obstructing his throat.

He sits gingerly, stiff joints settling back into the position they are finding bitterly familiar. He steadies his breathing as the contraption is placed back on his head, and Bucky does not fight the restraints or the needle. He wants to know, needs to know, what he is missing. His body slackens just before the current is sent through Bucky’s brain, and he tries his very best to stay still, to be good, as sharp sensation runs recklessly through his body. Everything is white, blinding pain.

It stops, a reprieve so sudden that it hurts more than the relentless strike of electricity did. Bucky gasps.

He wonders if they know he’s cracked a few teeth by now, wonders if they even care.

The same question, the same answer. It isn’t going to change.

By the time the doctor gets an answer he likes, Bucky’s drooling and gasping, the pain becoming unbearable. It feels as though his brain is scorched, burned out, the aftermath of a psychological torture he hadn’t expected to go through as he was drafted into the Army.

The doctor asks, “what is your name?”

He can’t remember, can’t think. Name? His brain supplies clips of a man’s accented voice shouting at him, dog, dog, _dirty worthless piece of shit dog_.

“…Dog…” It’s nothing more than a whisper, a broken noise coming from a broken man.

The doctor’s face twists into a smug smile, and the dog doesn’t want to see it again. It’s scary. “That’s correct. Now, what is your purpose?”

He looks away absently, trying to remember past the imagined smoke and the very real burns. His eyes land on a photograph sitting innocently on the table beside him. Smile bright as the sun, blond hair, blue eyes, red-white-and-blue uniform; recognition comes at the same time as a sharp slap. He gasps, jaw stinging from the impact, glassy eyes clear once more.

“What the fuck did you do to me?” A shaky voice above, a rumbling growl below. He struggles, makes frustrated noises at the thick restraints. 

“Bad dog.“ Stanislav’s presence in front of Bucky makes him look up, and he immediately regrets it as the butt of a pistol is struck across his temple.

He gasps, skin split and bleeding, until his body falls unconscious from the blow.

 

* * *

 

_James really likes this asshole of a kid, with his pretty blond hair and fierce attitude. His mama is a slightly taller version of him; with her Irish heritage and fiery eyes, it’s no wonder where little Steve got it from._

_Steve was defending this girl with polio braces. She was so small and helpless, an easy target for cruel kids, and of course Steve Goddamn Rogers was going to help her, no matter how big the bullies were or how hard they punched him. Steve looked bigger than he actually was, with his determined eyes and deep scowl. James liked him from the moment he laid eyes on those baby blues._

_Neither the little girl nor Steve expected James Buchanan Barnes to jump into the fray and knock the biggest playground bully on his ass._

_“Mean right hook you got there, Bucky.” Steve’s high, youthful voice rang above the sobs and vague threats as the two bullies retreated._

_“Don’t call me ‘Bucky’, short-stuff.”_

_“I’ll call you whatever I want, pal.” Steve smirked, and James knew this was going to be the beginning of a great friendship. Rogers turned that sunshine-bright smile to the girl as he helped her up. She blushed bright red, gratitude evident on her face._

_“Hey, you’ll be alright. Just remember to always stand up, whether it’s with your body or your mind.” Steve spoke so softly, so kindly, that James was genuinely surprised._

_Steve never left his side after that. Try as he might to shake him, Steve persisted like a bad cold. He always invited James over, but how could he resist Sarah Rogers’ amazing stew?_

_The nickname stuck, although Steven Grant Rogers was the only person allowed to call him Bucky._

 

* * *

 

Bucky coughs, _I’m pretty sure being knocked upside the head this many times is bad,_ he tries to joke to himself. His head throbs in time with the beating of his heart. When he opens his eyes, he sees nothing. Bucky can feel his eyelashes brush against fabric.

“Hey,” his voice is weak. “What’s going on? Why can’t I see anything?” His arm is restrained behind his back with some sort of strap around his waist holding it in place. He can feel the smooth coldness of a concrete floor under his hip.

Bucky tries to get up, uses his scarred shoulder to lift his upper body so he could get his knees under himself. He raises his body into a kneeling position.

“Tell me what the fuck is going on,” Bucky shouts at the top of his lungs, only hears an echo. He must be in the training room again.

Where Bucky nearly murdered a man. He swallows down the bile threatening to escape.

Footsteps register in his brain, and he turns his head to the side. He recognizes the pattern as Stanislav. The man stops behind Bucky, and a shiver runs down his spine.

“How much do you understand of the experimentation done by Arnim Zola?” the officer’s tone is indifferent.

Bucky hesitates before he speaks. “He did some fucked up shit to good soldiers, to me. Something’s.. different now.”

Stanislav’s boot slams into Bucky’s kidney, making the kneeling man lose his balance. He falls to the side, with a noise of surprise. “Focus on your body,” the officer orders. Bucky complies.

He can feel the busted blood vessels leaking, forming a bruise. His brows furrow underneath the thick fabric. Stanislav kneels next to Bucky. He hears the sound of metal scraping against metal, then the sharp tin smell hints the air. It’s a knife, Bucky learns as the officer drags it across his exposed, outstretched thigh.

Bucky gasps, the skin splits as the razor-sharp blade cuts flesh easily. The stench of blood is thick, and Bucky tries not to gag.

“You can feel pain deeper than before, dog,” he sounds almost gleeful. Bucky retches as the knife is thrust into his thigh, metal digs deeply into muscle.

“Please, stop,” Bucky pleads as the knife is yanked out. Blood pulses from the wound, runs down the side of his thigh. He tries to crawl away, tries to find purchase on the concrete with his toes, but the knife finds its way into the back side of the injured thigh. Bucky sobs.

He _can_ feel it; the cool metal stings the warm, meaty muscle it is buried in. The weapon is pulled out slowly, so slowly, and he gags harshly. The edge of the blade catches on the sinewy muscle, on his skin, on the tacky blood. A deep ache sets in. He’s breathing through his nose now, trying to stop his stomach’s reaction to this vile feeling.

“You can also feel your wounds healing,” Stanislav announces, and Bucky tries to focus through the pain. A tingle in the shallow wound, skin knitting itself back together, the pull of newly healed flesh. Bucky lies still as stone, waiting for the deeper knife wounds to heal. Stanislav returns to his feet.

“Be grateful for this gift, dog.”

Bucky is left lying in his own blood, waiting for his body to heal itself. The cloth soaks up his tears as they roll from his eyes.

In the darkness, he thinks of that little girl in polio braces, remembers holding Steve as he read her obituary in the newspaper a year later.

She couldn’t stand back up, and neither can Bucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel a little bad for bucky, because i can only write when i'm angry or otherwise emotionally compromised which means he goes through hell ahahah
> 
> maybe i'll write something happy, someday..


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Then tell me, who are you?”_
> 
> _Confusion rips through Bucky’s brain, it hurts and burns and he tries to hold back the tears of frustration._
> 
> _“I’m.. I’m Bucky,” he poses it as a question, genuinely uncertain. Wrong answer._
> 
>  
> 
> [a darkfic exploring the torture methods of the KGB and HYDRA, the effects they had on Bucky Barnes, and the result of The Winter Soldier program]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i rewrote this chapter four times before i just let the muse write through me instead of trying to follow a single set idea. it's not too graphic, still, bc i am still a very timid writer.
> 
> sorry for taking so long to update. without further adieu, here is chapter six! (warning for a single use of shitty online-translated russian)

They have stopped feeding Bucky regularly. The electric treatment follows no predictable schedule, and Bucky finds it to be increasingly damaging. He’s forgotten the least-significant memories, lost some of the ones with the most importance to him. Bucky can’t mourn what he doesn’t remember. It frustrates him when words he once knew are now meaningless to him.

He is awoken by the sound of his own screaming, can’t fall asleep for fear of punishment. Bucky has not slept for an undetermined amount of time, has not eaten for what feels like a week. The guards, the doctor, Stanislav, none of them touch Bucky now. If he does not comply, the harsh metal of a rifle is the only contact he knows.

Bucky finds comfort in the claustrophobic cell he resides in. It’s his best-kept secret, that feeling of relief as he is marched to the room and sealed within. It offers protection from the bitter winter winds, a safeguard from the men in the compound. He knows he doesn’t deserve it, but Bucky relishes in the hint of privacy.

It doesn’t last long.

When Stanislav catches the faint smile on Bucky’s face before the first treatment of the day, he pistol-whips the smaller man. Bucky cries, chokes when a scratchy rope is thrown around his neck and tightened. He reaches for the door, his fingers scrabble at the armed guard’s boots, but Stanislav continues to pull the rope taut until Bucky is forced to make a decision. Asphyxiate or comply.

He complies.

He is moved to an unfamiliar hall, one that was previously nonexistent to him. There are doors, so many doors, and Bucky hears the voices of men before he sees them. Anxiety flushes his weakened body. He whimpers, digs his heels in, tries to overpower Stanislav to no avail.

He is ordered to crawl into a cage, no bigger than a metal crate usually reserved for dogs. _Fitting, I guess.._ As a heavy padlock seals him in, Bucky hyperventilates. The soldiers have taken notice, they jeer and kick him in passing. Stanislav’s barking voice is the only thing familiar to Bucky. He seeks the officer’s face out.

“Privacy is a privilege that dogs do not deserve.”

Bucky tries to find the words to beg for forgiveness, stops when a boot firmly lands on his remaining hand. The threat is tangible, and Bucky retracts his arm. He curls up, unable to protect his vulnerable body from the chill of a draft. The hall quiets as Stanislav and the soldiers leave. Bucky cries for his loss.

 

***

 

The men are relentless in their torment. They dump cups of icy water on Bucky, eat their hot meals in his line of sight, flaunt their freedom. If only he had been good, if only he hadn’t been greedy. Shame is an emotion Bucky knows best. He tries to sleep through the taunting.

One of the soldiers holds an unlit lamp over Bucky and patiently pours it over his back. The sensation of oil dragging across his dirty back, sliding over the floor in a slippery puddle, drags him from his fitful slumber. The strike of a match, and Bucky doesn’t register the flames engulfing the streaks of oil on his back until his body releases a scream. The smell of burning flesh, of fire, shocks Bucky back to the treatments.

“No, no, I’ll be good-” He pleads, writhes in the cage, thrashes against the cold bars.

His brain imagines electric paths burning through his neurons. Bucky is back in the chair, back with the doctor and the treatment and the _pain_ and Bucky passes out. He doesn’t wake up when the fire is extinguished, when his body is dragged from the cage, when he is thrown into his cell.

When he does regain consciousness, he feels the flesh peeling and crackling on his back. Dirt drags gritty and coarse through his wounds. Recognizing his surroundings, Bucky shrieks. It wasn’t a nightmare, it was real, he’s back and they are going to punish him for being in this room. When the door slams open, he stumbles to his knees and begs for his life.

“You do not deserve this room, so why the fuck are you here?” Stanislav’s voice booms in the close atmosphere.

Bucky hastily crawls to the officer, nuzzles at the man’s dusty boots, and dares to speak. “It won’t happen again, please, I’ll do anything.”

The officer uses the barrel of his rifle to lift Bucky’s head, the iron sight scrapes his throat. Bucky is grateful for the distraction from the marred flesh on his back. “Then tell me, who are you?”

Confusion rips through Bucky’s brain, it hurts and burns and he tries to hold back the tears of frustration.

“I’m.. I’m Bucky,” he poses it as a question, genuinely uncertain. Wrong answer. The rifle lifts to the side of his ear, and the crack of it firing right beside him shocks Bucky into a catatonic state. He can’t hear. His head is ringing and buzzing and he sees white. Awareness trickles back as he is being strapped into the treatment chair. Bucky doesn’t understand what he did wrong.

Stanislav is shouting in his ear, something about learning his place, about being a machine, and Bucky bawls. The contraption is placed over his head. Bucky babbles, tries to ask why he is being punished. Electricity tears through his brain, his lungs constrict, and when he slams his teeth together, he can feel them cracking.

He doesn’t pass out. Oblivion does not greets him with a comforting shroud of darkness. No, Bucky is awake through it all. His thrashing breaks his burned back open and blood trickles steadily down his flesh. Bucky _screams_.

Something is ripped from him, he reaches for it with a limb that is no longer there, spots dancing wildly in his vision. He does not know what is missing.

This treatment is lengthier, more grueling, and after it ends, the man in the chair is still screaming. The contraption is removed, and two men come into view.

“Who are you?” The taller one demands.

He cannot speak, doesn’t know how to answer the question. A single word comes to mind, so he recites it with a broken voice and a cotton tongue.

“Machine.”

 

***

 

He walks obediently to the little cage, falls to his knees, and crawls inside without further prompting. His teeth ache, and drool leaks from his mouth as he collapses on his side. The men kick and taunt him, but he does not flinch, does not react as the scabs on his back are torn open by every little movement.

A hand strokes down his body, from head to knee, and he shudders. It’s gentle, warm, calloused. The darkness in the hall dares him to speak. “Who am I?”

The hand strokes his matted hair, and graces him with a whispered answer, “you are nothing.” _Dog, machine, worthless, disgusting_.

He moans softly when the warm hand is joined by another, and they pet him in tandem. Words ride the draft and cover his body in chill.

“You are a machine, nothing but an object to be used and maintained. Do you understand?”

The caged one breathes the answer out as a plea, a confirmation, a sigh.

The warmth leaves him, and he finds solace in slumber. It comes easily, and while he knows he deserves nothing, he is grateful for the gift. He follows his superior to the next treatment without hesitation. They know what is best, they know how to maintain him. A tube is inserted through an incision in his abdomen and sustenance is given regularly.

When, unbidden, a hammer strikes his brain, a voice screams for him to fight, a man with deep blue eyes gazes at him, he surrenders himself to the doctor. The treatments are necessary, they tell him. They are needed for him to become the efficient, deadly weapon that he is.

They tell him that he is _it_ , and the understanding this brings is uncomfortable and relieving and the dog embraces it.

It has no other purpose than to obey orders.

 

***

 

Names can be re-learned. Stanislav makes sure it remembers his, makes sure it knows to address him properly.

After each treatment, he questions the dog. If it remembers, the dog is rewarded with a rough bite to the shoulder that is soothed with a warm tongue. If it cannot remember the officer’s name, the flesh is flayed from its thighs until his name is screamed, in equal parts resignation and obedience. The doctor hums in delight when the dog’s wounds heal and the scars fade. It clings to Stanislav’s name like it’s the only thing keeping the dog alive.

_He is keeping it alive._

 

***

 

The dog thinks it’s feeding time, so it rises to kneel as the cage door swings open. It does not look up until a hand in dirty hair forces it from the cage to stand. The captive sees a length of leather in Stanislav’s hand. It has a metal buckle, two metal prongs on the sides that face inward, and the dog whimpers.

“Silence.”

It stills and Stanislav drags it upwards to balance on unsteady feet. The leather is wrapped around its throat and he can’t prevent the gasps for breath. It’s a collar, and the Machine flushes with embarrassment as it’s tightened. The metal studs dig into its neck, and it can feel them breaking through flesh.

“Shameful, disgusting little creature,” Stanislav spits, his accent heavy and grating to the dog’s ears. “You are a pitiful little dog.”

It lowers green eyes to the floor. Stanislav’s calloused hand whipping across its face snaps the dog to attention. “It will speak when spoken to.”

“Yes,” its voice is small, meek, so unlike the man Stanislav had been breaking so long ago.

That hand grasps its jaw in a crushing grip, forcing it to look forward. “What are you?”

“A dog.” Not a hint of hesitation. The answer feels right on its tongue. Stanislav nods, releases its jaw.

It does not eat that day.

 

***

 

Dog owns nothing. The bite of metal and the chafe of leather remind it of that fact. It must care for the collar, because it is the property of the officer. The collar is precious. When it is gifted a cup of lukewarm, partially cloudy water, it gently rinses the blood coagulating underneath the tight leather. The metal spikes tear healing scabs and make the process seem almost redundant, but Dog must complete the task.

It can feel the body trying to heal the damaged ring of flesh around his neck, but the body fails. The scars remain under the constant presence of leather and metal.

Dog prepares for training.

Six soldiers in combat gear surround its naked body. They brandish knives and strange batons that crackle with the same energy the chair exhumes. Tremors make Dog’s limbs unsteady, and it is unsure if it is meant to submit or to resist. When Dog collapses from slashes and biting electricity, the answer is made clear in the form of a bullwhip cracking on the pink, new skin of freshly-healed burns. It shrieks, cowers behind a single arm. A man brings his electric baton to its scarred stump, and Dog thrashes with renewed fear.

“Fight, or you will die today,” Stanislav’s words reverberate in its foggy skull.

It wets the ground with the closest soldier’s blood, teeth ripping through cloth and flesh alike. The men’s collective fear is evident in the pungent scent of sweat mixing with anxiety. It lunges at a soldier, one with light blonde hair, blue eyes, and sharp cheekbones. It stumbles. Familiar. _Ghost._

The crude stun baton is pressed to the collar and the current sings through the metal contacts piercing Dog’s throat. Its screams are choked, electricity crackles through bone and sinew, and when the baton is removed, Dog feels blood dripping from its nose. Hatred burns fiery and overwhelming, the image before Dog is distorted and red. The baton is ripped from the youthful soldier’s grasp and shoved down his throat.

Dog flicks the switch. It relishes the man’s screams of terror and pain, the fearful hesitance of the remaining soldiers.

When the man’s body falls to the concrete, Dog gazes through its eyelashes at Stanislav. He is pleased, and Dog’s breath quickens.

The four soldiers are shown no mercy. It has bathed in the blood spurting from torn flesh and broken limbs, and now it approaches Stanislav with a menacing snarl.

The Machine drops to its bare knees and pants heavily before its superior.

“You have done so well,” Stanislav’s words are quiet and soothing. His hand wraps around Dog’s throat and hoists it higher, higher, until its toes are brushing the floor and it is gasping for breath with the dying remnants of euphoric bloodlust singing in its veins.

“You belong to me, you are _mine_.”

The Machine whispers, breathless, “ _yest, ser_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy i realise that some parts of this seem vaguely.. sexual??? but they are not. bucky cannot consent to anything they do, and stanislav's intentions are of a manipulative, possessive nature. non-consensual sexual shit is for humiliation and power, not out of desire or love.
> 
> also whooo subtle character development (and deterioration in bucky's case) for the bad guy doing bad things  
> the sad excuse for russian was bucky using the military form for "yes, sir". probably wrong, but *shrugs*.
> 
> come visit my [tumblr](http://ace-bucky.tumblr.com/) so we can cry over bucky barnes


	7. 1945

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The Soldier does not fight the chair, the electricity. It does not own the body, it does not get to choose what is done to it. The body belongs to the doctor, to Stanislav, to the soldiers, to the chair. The Soldier does not know if the Mind exists, or if it is simply an aspect of the Machine._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [a darkfic exploring the methods of the KGB and HYDRA, the effects they had on Bucky Barnes, and the result of the Winter Soldier program]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the parts where Bucky is the focus are going to be worded strangely. he doesn’t fully understand what is happening around him, and he especially doesn’t recognise his body parts as being his own. they are simply there, existing, they are not his own. thus, he refers to them as “the arm” or “the body”. strange, i know, but it fits a certain narrative that i am going for.
> 
> i added a couple tags for the abusive language used against bucky (past and present) bc i realised i should really tag for shit like that, even though they are minor compared to the physical abuse.
> 
> i wrote most of this on my phone so pls be gentle about any errors/inconsistencies you find :)

_1945_

The Soldier is ordered to watch as the dog cage is removed, and is led to the end of the barracks. The door is open, and the Soldier digs its heels in when it is pushed inside. The doctor speaks softly, “a weapon needs proper storage.” His features mimic kindness, and the Soldier does not understand. Anxiety flushes the Soldier’s skin a splotchy red.

Fearful eyes seek out the officer, and the Soldier anxiously strokes the collar where metal digs into flesh. Stanislav is angry, familiar to the Soldier, and explains the doctor’s words. “You stay here, now, you fucking idiot.” The Soldier nods.

The door snaps closed after the men leave, and the flash of a tiny, cramped apartment comes to mind. As the Soldier gives chase, it disappears with the whisper of a shaky breath. The memory is forgotten. The Soldier sits on the floor.

 

***

 

The Soldier is dizzy, ocular sensory cut off with a black hood. Recycled breath makes it worse, makes the head spin and the lungs burn. The Soldier can hear every heartbeat emanating from the doctor’s chest. Calm, steady, the deep beat of a drum. Oppositely, the Soldier’s heart is hammering and unsteady, uncertainty and anxiety forming a deadly mixture that sends the heart into a frenzy. The lungs follow in close pursuit, expanding farther and farther, struggling to suck up the last bit of clean oxygen that remains in the loose dome of cloth. Auditory sensory is overwhelmed.

The Soldier listens to the doctor’s words about being high in the air, with gusts of wind rushing past and the freezing chill of snow underfoot. The Soldier’s skin tingles, cools itself with sweat. The body is held at a forward angle by a harness around the Soldier’s chest. It tries to push backward, away from the cliff ahead, tries desperately not to plummet to certain death.

A whisper beside its ear, “you are _padeniye_ ,” and the Soldier is plunging forward, a scream tears from its throat as it falls, fast and heavy, the ghost of snow cold upon bare skin.

Breath whooshes out of its lungs as it feels toes gouged against concrete, heart pounds rabbit-fast as it feels the harness tugging on the body. The Soldier did not fall to its death, there is concrete a bare centimeter before its nose.

The Soldier bawls, snot and tears soaking through the fabric. The arm is immobilized to its back, and the Soldier trembles.

“You will do as I say, _Soldat_.”

“Yes,” the syllable is broken up by stuttered breath and shaky vocal cords.

The Soldier does not want to fall.

 

***

 

Stanislav resents the doctor. He resents the Soldier; the lack of reaction when flesh is torn, when bones are fractured, when pain stirs no emotion.

Most of all, though, he resents the conditioning that the doctor has been performing without Stanislav present. The Soldier acts differently, after, and it fills him with rage.

“I’m the one who found that guy, I’m in charge,” he confronts the doctor. They both watch as the Soldier’s sedated body is dragged from the lab. Stanislav stands firm, stares down at the other man.

“Worry not, I am merely tinkering. That brain is just so interesting.” The doctor will not be intimidated.

 

***

 

The communications have stopped, with Arnim Zola now in the custody of the Americans. The doctor waits patiently. 

 

***

 

The Soldier does not like the chair. It does not like the treatments, the electricity, the pain, but it is not allowed to voice this. It is not allowed to disobey. The Soldier cries when the machine is placed around its head.

It hears a man screaming, screaming to _hold on don’t let go reach for my hand_ , and it complies. Fingernails dig into the armrest, fingers frozen in place long after the machine has been turned off and the last remnants of electricity bounce through frayed neurons.

It does not understand how it can be so cold, even with the fire that trickles down veins to escape into the floor.

The Soldier does not fight the chair, the electricity. It does not own the body, it does not get to choose what is done to it. The body belongs to the doctor, to Stanislav, to the soldiers, to the chair. The Soldier does not know if the Mind exists, or if it is simply an aspect of the Machine.

It hurts the brain to think in such a way, so the Soldier does not think.

Weapons need only to obey.

 

***

 

Stanislav enters the lab like a reckless storm, body tingling from the electricity lingering in the air. The Soldier is catatonic, expressionless, and his fury reaches its peak. The man in the chair hadn’t even screamed, just grit his teeth and bore the pain like it was his duty. Even after the stubborn will to live was beaten and burned from Barnes’ body, still he endured. It only served to further anger the officer.

The doctor whispers something to the Soldier, and Stanislav grabs the doctor’s wrist as it hovers near the controls.

“This isn’t fun any more,” he growls at the shorter man. This started as a way to say “fuck you” to the Americans, but now it’s different. Stanislav doesn’t trust this man. The doctor’s eyes flick to the Soldier, then back to Stanislav.

“I never said this was for fun,” the Soldier’s unrestrained hand crushes Stanislav’s as the doctor speaks. His hand is wrenched from the doctor’s wrist. “We are building a weapon.”

Stanislav gawks, rounds on the Soldier, ready to break his jaw. He stops, stares, gasps as the Soldier levels him with an intense gaze. No matter what the doctor has done to Barnes, Stanislav stubbornly refuses to be intimidated by a mere prisoner of war. He lashes out.

“Fuck you!” His fist snaps the Soldier’s head to the side. “You do not have the right to lay your hand on me.”

The Soldier shows no reaction and instead shakily squeezes Stanislav’s wrist harder. Bones grind together, and the Soldier does not relent. Stanislav’s eyes widen, looks at the doctor. “What did you say to him?”

“ _Soldat, lyezhat_.” The officer’s wrist is dropped, and the Soldier’s eyes become unfocused and glazed. The doctor steps beside Stanislav, lowers his voice, “worry not, it’s harmless.” Tension makes the air close and stale, and Stanislav feels fear like he had never known before. He turns on his heel and exits the room. The doctor laughs, a short, bark of a thing, and the Soldier flinches.

“Soldier, you are my most prized creation.” Shivers wrack the man in the chair as a hand strokes a cheek, moving down to rest on a shoulder. An image flashes through the Soldier’s brain, of a man resting his hand on a blond man’s shoulder in concern and intimacy, but it’s gone with the intake of oxygen by strong lungs. The Soldier says nothing.

 

***

 

When it is time for treatment, when electricity rushes through the brain like water breaking from a dam, the Soldier dreams. The mind separates from the body, from the pain, from the gritting teeth and panting breaths. The Soldier does not inform the doctor.

The Mind is above the Body, watching a mirror’s reflection, and it longs to touch the body, to stop the pain, but it cannot. The arm is restrained, the Body is disciplined, the Machine is ruthless. The Mind whispers sweet nothings, recites the dreams like a picture reel.

Blond hair glittering like gold thread in sunlight, blue eyes shining like a deep blue ocean in moonlight, and the Mind is falling in a different way. Heartbeat frantic, stomach tight with emotion, and the Mind’s fingertips brush against the name for it. It cannot remember the word. The dream flickers, changes, and suddenly they are spinning, faster and faster, while eyes watch blond hair whip in the wind. Background noise of machinery and laughter and music filters through the scene. The small man laughs, covers his mouth, and when the spinning stops and he runs for a trash bin, concern stabs at the Mind like a dull knife.

They laugh, the Body and the blond man, yet the dream shifts. The Mind recognizes the cell, the dirty floor and the rats in the walls, hears the Body repeating a word like a broken record.

_Steve, Steve, Steve_ , the Mind is screaming, falling, and the electricity singes the edges of its vision.

As flames lick the Body’s bare and dirty feet, the dream changes. Saltwater, gruff masculine voices, and the Body laying on scratchy blankets. The Mind wonders why the Body feels stiff, achy, the pain pinpointed in a very specific location. Crumpled bills are tossed on the threadbare blanket beside the Body, and the words hit the Mind with buried humiliation and desperation, “Get the fuck out, fag.” The Body stands, replaces the discarded clothes, and moves on to another man, another bed, another night. The blond greets the Body, asks how work was, and the Mind whispers harsh words that mean nothing now but were once shameful and humiliating. The Body replies, “fine, gonna have to pick up some extra jobs to cover rent.” The small man is completely oblivious to the bruises blooming over flesh covered by cloth, to the ache in the Body’s backside, to the source of the rent money.

The dream dissipates, smoke billowing from a fire, blown away by the wind.

The Mind is back within the Body, and it tries desperately to remember what it had seen. The Soldier does not inform the doctor. The Mind’s screams are trapped and strangled to nothingness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the shitty russian. i do not speak the language. i got the translations from an online dictionary (not google, shockingly) and a russian dog training site. yes, the second 'trigger' is a command used to training dogs. fitting, huh? excuse me while i cry over bucky barnes :)
> 
> Padeniye/falling: activation. Lyezhat/down: deactivation.

**Author's Note:**

> the title comes from this quote about dehumanization:
> 
> "... the extent of its destructive toll is already greater than that of any war, plague, famine, or natural calamity on record ... For that reason this sickness of the soul might well be called the 'Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse.’ Its more conventional name, of course, is dehumanization.”
> 
> \- Ashley Montagu, The Dehumanization of Man
> 
> come visit my [tumblr](http://ace-bucky.tumblr.com/) so we can cry over bucky barnes


End file.
